This story was sent in by Marcus J. from Toledo, Ohio.
I’ve always had a bad habit of putting things off until the very last minute, especially when it comes to music gear. I play keys for a couple of local bands around Toledo, and the night before a gig I realized the keyboard I actually needed—my older, heavier one with the better action—was sitting in my storage unit across town. It was already close to 1 a.m., but I figured it would be a quick in‑and‑out trip. I’d been to that storage place late before, and it was usually empty and quiet.
The place is one of those long, straight rows of corrugated metal doors that look identical, with motion‑activated lights that take their sweet time warming up. When I pulled in, the air felt colder than I expected, almost damp. As I drove slowly down the aisle, the lights kept flickering on behind me instead of ahead of me, which was always a little unnerving.
Right away, one thing stood out. At the far end, near the last row, there was a storage unit with its lock hanging open. Not removed—just dangling there like someone had unlocked it and then shut the door again without bothering to slide the lock off. It swayed a little, tapping the metal every few seconds. Something about that small, rhythmic sound carried down the aisle more than it should have.
I tried not to overthink it. People forget things. Maybe someone had just stepped away or planned to come right back. I parked near my own unit, popped the trunk, and walked over to unlock it. The hinge squeaked like it always did; I kept telling myself I’d bring WD‑40 one day. Inside it smelled faintly like old cardboard and dust, the usual storage unit smell.
I found the keyboard case buried behind a couple of bins. I had to drag some stuff out to reach it, and while I was doing that, the whole place felt too quiet—like my own movements were way louder than they should’ve been. I remember thinking the cold air was settling into my jacket, but I kept going.
Then, out of nowhere, something slammed hard against one of the metal doors across from me.
It was a single, sharp metallic bang that echoed through the aisle and made my chest tighten. I straightened up so fast I hit my head on the shelf above me. I waited, listening. For a few seconds, there was nothing but that very faint ringing hum metal gets after being struck.
Then there was another bang. Same volume, same angle—like someone was hitting the inside of the door with their fist or shoulder.
The motion light above the row finally clicked on, washing everything in this harsh, pale glow. Nothing moved. All the unit doors were down. There wasn’t a single person in sight.
I stepped out of my unit and stood there holding my phone, trying to locate exactly which door the sound came from. They all looked identical, and the quiet made it even harder to tell. I cleared my throat and called out something like, “Hello? You good in there?”
No answer.
But after a couple seconds, I heard this soft dragging sound, like fingertips or maybe something metallic scraping lightly along the inside of one of the doors. It traveled a little, then stopped abruptly.
Every instinct told me to grab my keyboard and go, so I yanked the case out and shoved everything else back inside. When I pulled the door down, the clatter of the metal rolling into place felt way too loud. I locked it as fast as I could and backed away toward my car, keeping my eyes on the row in front of me.
That’s when I heard footsteps.
Not on the concrete in front of me—behind the row of units. Fast ones. The kind of speed that isn’t just someone walking. It sounded like someone was running along the narrow space between the building and the fence, right behind the closed units. The steps stayed parallel to me as I walked, like whoever it was was tracking my movement from the other side of the wall.
I didn’t see a shadow or a person, just the echo of those quick, concentrated steps hitting the ground in this steady, almost frantic rhythm.
I picked up my pace, fumbling with my keys. The footsteps sped up. By the time I reached my car door, my hands were shaking hard enough that I dropped my keys once. I didn’t look back down the aisle or toward that unlocked unit. I didn’t want to make eye contact with anything—or anyone—that might be there.
I got in, slammed the door, and locked it. The second I turned the engine over, something clattered loudly from the far end of the row, near that open lock, like someone kicked a piece of metal or knocked something over. I didn’t wait to see what it was. I backed out too fast, fishtailed on the loose gravel, and sped out through the gate without even checking the mirrors.
When I got home, I kept replaying the night in my head. The unlocked unit. The banging from inside. The dragging sound. And those rapid footsteps keeping pace behind the row. I tried to come up with explanations—a raccoon, maybe, or someone living in one of the units illegally. But nothing really lined up with the way it sounded. Nothing about it felt accidental.
I still have that same unit, but I only go during the day now. Even if I desperately need something, I wait. I won’t step foot in that place after dark anymore. There’s something about those long metal hallways and the way sound bounces around that makes you feel like you’re never actually alone.
And sometimes, late at night, I can still hear that hollow metallic bang in my head, followed by the footsteps rushing to meet it.